


The Importance of the Silent E

by pagination



Category: Final Fantasy VII, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, critical of Dumbledore, homonyms, prophecy is for lazy people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:13:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23897335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagination/pseuds/pagination
Summary: “I think this must be Voldemort,” Vincent said, staring at the ranting Bad Rap. Cloud was skeptical, and this was coming from a man named after a weather phenomenon. “He’s the local dark lord, considered one of the more powerful magic users on the planet.”There was nothing about that statement that Cloud didn’t take issue with. “Really?” And then, because it needed to be said, pointed out, “He’s pretty pale.” Maybe ‘Dark Lord’ referred to his tragic fashion choices?
Comments: 25
Kudos: 307





	The Importance of the Silent E

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to re-read the Harry Potter series (I lie! I am a liar! 'Re-read' implies I read the whole thing to begin with!) during this whole isolation thing. I stopped because of sheer irritation and the urgent need to smack a lot of the characters around. So then I popped onto youtube to stare longingly at FFVII remake videos.
> 
> And then this happened. So.
> 
> 4/29/20 Edit: See, betas are a good thing. Because if there aren't betas, there are typos, grammatical atrocities, dropped italics, and so much shame.

Vincent only waited long enough for Cloud’s ears to materialize before announcing, “You’re late.”

Cloud’s mouth wasn’t finished forming, so he was in no condition to answer. He ignored him instead as his body rebuilt itself, top-down. Paranoia made him check himself over as he was reconstructed: arms, chest, legs, feet, all present and accounted for, as well as the boots, pants, vest, and sword that the Planet had thankfully added halfway through the process. They were still smoking gently, in a shade of green that matched in the ribbon of Lifestream looping through the stone room. He lifted an arm, watching the ghostly contrail blur the motion. Hopefully that would stop soon. It was almost as distracting as having a body again.

“I don’t remember being this short,” he said, bouncing experimentally on his new feet.

“I do,” Vincent said dryly.

Cloud grimaced, and glanced over at him. The sight of Vincent’s outfit—still the ragged red cloak over the black clothes, drama personified—inspired a quirk of his mouth. “You’re still an asshole, I see.”

Vincent shrugged, but Cloud caught the faint softening of amusement in his eyes before his old friend turned away to the door. “We’re going to a country called Norway. We’ll need to travel a bit.”

But first, apparently, they needed to sneak out of the building they were in.

Evading shoddy security and darting down strange corridors was very much like old times, new Planet and new era though it might be. The building seemed to operate on a bizarre low tech, high magic principle that had a pleasing familiarity to it. Cloud flowed into the shadows with Vincent, stiff at first but gradually smoothing out as he readjusted to the weight of physicality and the way muscles stretched, joints moved, and blood pumped.

It was all rather meaty. Unpleasant at first, but then, it had been a long time since the Planet had deployed him, and it wasn’t as though he hadn’t grown accustomed to reincorporation before. He practiced breathing (not yet autonomous again, but a habit that needed rebuilding. Floating in the Lifestream didn’t involve lungs) as they tucked themselves into the rafters and watched people run by. The building was quietly agitated, though given the way the oddly dressed guards were searching, something else was the target of their pursuit.

Cloud looked a question at his friend.

“Local trouble,” Vincent said flatly, watching a pair of men in black dresses and white masks race away.

He hesitated. Cloud could see him debating whether or not to get involved. After a moment though, Vincent shook his head and led them down a different hallway.

Then they were at the top of a vertical shaft, and emerging into a long, wide chamber. This was, if not the source of, at least a cause of some of the guards’ agitation. Green lightning flashed, a stone statue galloped into its path and exploded; Cloud came to a stop beside Vincent and lazily blocked a flying chunk of rock flying at his face with First Tsurugi. Through the flare and snap of more colored magic, he spied three figures—no, four, though only two were actually engaged in... whatever that was. A spar? No, they were barely moving. Just— standing in place, throwing magic at each other. Maybe a demonstration? Or some sort of stress test?

He squinted. He spared a moment to wonder why they were only using magic, only to realize that one of the figures was an ancient man in a horrific, lurid dress, of all things. Strangely, that made more sense. Someone that old would struggle with a sword, and his eyesight wouldn’t be good enough for long-range weaponry, given he was wearing glasses.

Which still didn’t explain the stupidity of just standing there while someone was throwing magic at you, or why the other magic-user looked like an anemic [Bad Rap](https://images.app.goo.gl/uvxYpxgTE3m6rdiNA) in, yes, another shapeless dress. Failures of fashion were apparently a thing in the future.

They paused to watch. Old Man and Bad Rap were shouting at each other in between casting more magic. It was a bit like a comedy routine from a kids’ program Denzel and Marlene used to enjoy.

“Ah,” Cloud realized after a moment. At Vincent’s sideways glance, he admitted, “I don’t speak the language.”

Vincent frowned a question.

“Any of the current ones, I guess,” Cloud said, answering that expression. “Do people still speak Nahuatl? That’s the one I learned last time I had a body.”

Vincent didn’t answer that, which might have been a no. Then again, it could equally have been a yes. “You didn’t get them from the Lifestream?”

Cloud shrugged. Languages didn’t matter much in the Lifestream. There wasn’t a lot of talking there. Not as such.

Out on the floor, Old Man and Bad Rap had moved to the summon portion of their exchange, which covered up Vincent’s small, world-weary sigh. Cloud watched as—was that Phoenix? Miniaturized? Depowered? Were baby summons a thing now?—and then a _tiny_ serpent summons popped in and then fell out of play before they even finished attacking. Neither of them were bigger than a motorcycle, at best. All around disappointment, really.

Vincent turned away towards the distant promise of a door. Since things seemed to be winding down, Cloud did too. Not his business, not his problem. Besides, getting involved at this point would be overkill, even if he knew what it was all about, anyway.

Behind him, a child screamed.

Reflex whipped Cloud around. A boy in glasses, ungainly with adolescence, fell sprawling out from behind a broken statue. He clutched his head and screamed again. Bad Rap was missing. Cloud cast a quick Sense and found him hovering invisibly over Glasses Boy. And even worse...

Glasses looked up at Old Man, his youthful face twisted in malice. His eyes burned with the alien presence of possession.

Old Man shouted something, but Cloud was already moving. Even as Glasses opened his mouth to answer, Cloud was halfway across the room, Esuna flaring between his fingers to splash into the boy’s face.

He shrieked, arching back to writhe on the floor. Up close, Cloud could feel the faint stench of corruption in Bad Rap. It wasn’t Jenova—Jenova was eons dead—but some other, weaker foulness. First Tsurugi hummed as it sliced through the air, angling up over Glasses to bite through Bad Rap’s invisible torso. There was a blast of magic, from both Bad Rap and Old Man. Cloud swatted them both aside with a twitch of Wall. The sword finished its arc, blood spraying dark and smoking across the nearby rubble.

But Bad Rap was gone.

There was a beat in which everything seemed to pause. Glasses stopped screaming. His harsh breathing was a rasping counterpoint to Cloud’s ongoing Sense.

The Old Man said something, his voice urgent. He pointed a stick at Cloud, maybe to make sure Cloud knew he was talking to him? Cloud ignored it. Bad Rap was— ah, there.

Cloud zeroed in on the new location, shifting in preparation even as Bad Rap popped out of invisibility across the room and staggered. Blood splatted messily on the floor beneath it. First Tsurugi had done serious damage, even if Bad Rap had managed to teleport away before being chopped in half. The monster fell to one knee with a hiss of mingled rage and pain.

It started raving. Cloud may not have understood the words, but the sound of a villainous rant was apparently something that transcended millennia and the language barrier.

“Sorry,” he said, absent-mindedly casting a Silencega for safety’s sake. “I don’t speak the language.”

Vincent melted out of the air next to Cloud in a swirl of red cloak, exuding disapproval. He eyed Cloud judgmentally. _What are you doing?_ Cloud grimaced back, and jerked his head at Glasses in explanation.

Vincent sighed. He was in no position to complain about Cloud’s weakness for children. He was just as soft in his own way. “This is local trouble. I wasn’t planning on getting involved.”

“Um,” Cloud said. Oops?

It was too late now, obviously. “I think this must be Voldemort,” Vincent said instead of scolding him, studying the still ranting Bad Rap. Cloud was skeptical, and this was coming from a man named after a weather phenomenon. “He’s the local dark lord, considered one of the more powerful magic users on the planet.”

There was nothing about that statement that Cloud didn’t take issue with. “Really?” And then, because it needed to be said, pointed out, “He’s pretty pale.” Maybe ‘Dark Lord’ referred to his tragic fashion choices?

Vincent shrugged, disavowing responsibility for the so-called Voldemort’s tanning problem. Voldemort focused on him and said something sharp. Vincent said something back in the local language. Then he huffed in amusement. Before Cloud could ask, he said, “He’s ordering me to kill you, because he has an alliance with the vampires.”

“Huh.” Cloud gave Vincent an expectant look.

Vincent was too cool to roll his eyes. “I’m still not a vampire.” He said something contemptuous to Voldemort. Predictably, Voldemort’s reaction to it was not good. Old Man jumped into the conversation as well, and got yelled at by Voldemort, too. Yells all around.

He was frisky for something that injured. Not understanding the conversation was starting to make Cloud antsy. He twitched a bit.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” Vincent asked, with a distant sort of curiosity.

“He dodged. I didn’t want to cause more trouble than I had to.”

Vincent’s eyebrow crept up. Cloud rubbed the back of his neck, feeling sheepish.

“I could finish him off?” he suggested.

Vincent sighed. “It’s pointless. The magicals keep doing this to themselves. Kill one dark lord, and they’ll just make another one.”

Cloud shrugged. He still wasn’t entirely sure what a ‘dark lord’ _was_. Maybe ‘Dark’ was a place? Or some sort of professional specialty? And what the hell was a ‘magical’? Just someone who could do magic? Or was it a new kind of human-imitating monster?

Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose. “Rumor is that this one was already dead for over a decade before coming back.”

“Clone, maybe?” Cloud frowned at Voldemort as Libra flooded his mind with information. “Huh.” He glanced over at Glasses, who was sitting up now and staring at them. “Huh,” he said again. “He’s a construct. People get up to some pretty strange stuff these days.”

He felt the gentle rush of Vincent’s Libra fire off as well, along with his thoughtful hum. Voldemort was waving his stick as though it offended him. He said something—it sounded like barely restrained panic under a serving of smarm. Nearby, Old Man had a similar, if more subdued reaction.

“They just noticed the Silence,” Vincent supplied, dry. “He will allow you to join him in his great conquest of the world. As his most trusted ally and equal, since you seem powerful. Apparently, he recognizes us by reputation.”

Because of course they had a reputation. This was probably about that island Cloud ended up flattening one of his last times here. He sighed. “Hold on. Let me just try...”

Great Gospel might have been overkill, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t get more if he needed it. He was in Voldemort’s face before the construct could blink, and splashing Aerith’s water in its eyes. Then he was back beside Vincent again, tucking the vial away.

The locals paused, taken aback. Then Voldemort snarled something. It sounded insulting.

“Well,” Cloud said. “It was worth a— oh wait, here we go.”

It started with smoke, curling off of Voldemort’s eyes. The construct stared, raising his hand to see the same greasy-looking vapor twisting up off his hand. Once Great Gospel took hold, it spread rapidly until Voldemort was almost invisible behind clouds of black. Where curing Geostigma all those years ago had left healed skin behind though, in the construct’s case the flesh was being disintegrated entirely.

Voldemort started to scream. Black fire ran in a flash away from him down thin lines in mid-air, as though burning through threads that were invisible until now. One of them led to Glasses Boy, and flared up on the startled boy’s forehead before fading away. The rest punched through walls following whatever path moved them, leaving no marks behind.

Hopefully they wouldn’t burn down a city or something. That would suck.

Eventually, Voldemort’s screams faded away. It took a minute or so for him to finish breaking apart, rendered down to what looked like a severed hand, a random bone, and some foul-smelling fluid half-covered by the dress he’d been wearing.

Cloud shouldered First Tsurugi and wandered over to poke at the loot with his foot. “Ugh,” he said. There was nothing there he was interested in keeping. He looked around.

More people in dresses had been gathering in the room during the last few minutes, mostly spending their time screaming and hiding, or hiding and screaming. The Old Man was barking what sounded like demands at them. Cloud still couldn’t understand the language, so he just shrugged and looked expectantly at Vincent.

“I was planning a more subtle exit than this,” Vincent said wryly, quietly casting another Silencega to catch the newcomers before saying something irritable at them.

Cloud looked around again. They were the focus of all eyes. And sticks. And quite a bit more of the screaming. Some of them were screaming at their sticks. Weird. “You probably should’ve known better, all things considered.”

Vincent made an exasperated sort of noise. “I think we’ve outworn our welcome.”

The dresses were starting to show signs of wanting to crowd around and demand explanations. Cloud wasn’t good at explanations. Vincent didn’t do them on principle.

With a huff of a laugh, Cloud closed his eyes as the familiar red cloak spread in the air like ink in water, wrapping itself around them both and whisking them away.

* * *

Sirius was dead. Dead.

And so, according to the Unspeakables, was Voldemort.

“I’m afraid that’s not true,” said Dumbledore to his audience, three hours after two men had disintegrated Voldemort and temporarily stripped everyone in the Atrium of their magic. “He has cheated death before. I fear there are no easy solutions.”

Harry, who had found himself sitting with Luna, Neville, and Ginny in a lushly appointed conference room filled with Ministry personnel, felt surprisingly disinterested in Voldemort. And though it was impossible to focus on the Head Unspeakable’s face due to the spells on his robe, Harry had the distinct impression that he? she? felt much the same way.

“We have run every possible test,” the Head Unspeakable, whose name was apparently Croaker, said. “All results agree. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is no more.”

“That’s what the Minister was saying all year, and yet we saw otherwise just a few hours ago,” said Amelia Bones. “What’s different now?”

“The difference is now you have an expert, educated opinion,” Croaker said dryly. “We could have informed Minister Fudge at any point that Voldemort was not dead. However, he has been avoiding any meetings with the Department of Mysteries for the last year. Not unlike you have yourself, Albus.”

If Harry hadn’t been so numb, he probably would have lost his temper at this point. He kept his eyes fixed on the table top instead. Ginny’s grip around his wrist was making him lose sensation in his fingers. Luna had his other hand gently clasped in hers, but she seemed more interested in peering at the ceiling and humming quietly to herself.

“I’m afraid there is a prophecy,” Dumbledore said, heavily. From the way he glanced at Harry, it was obvious to the room who the prophecy was about. Harry’s jaw ached from clenching.

The Unspeakables collectively gave off an air of aloof indifference that Harry both resented and envied. “We are aware. The conditions have been met. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead.”

“Prophecy?” Amelia Bones’s voice was sharp. “What prophecy?”

“Unfortunately, for the safety of the wizarding world—” Dumbledore began.

Croaker made a rude noise and dug into his robes, emerging with a leather pouch. He poured out a fistful of shattered glass fragments into rune-etched wooden cup. A second later, Trelawny’s bug-eyed face was floating in mid-air. Dumbledore’s protest was cut off mid-word when one of the other Unspeakables crankily silenced him from behind.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies...."

Silence fell as Trelawney’s voice died away. Dumbledore, who had managed to finite his way out of the hex, turned a sympathetic look at Harry. Harry felt sick, and selfishly wished Ron and Hermione were there with him instead of off being treated by Healers. “I’m sorry, my boy. I tried to keep this from you. I wanted you to have a childhood. It is clear, that—”

“Oh _bullshit_ ,” said Croaker.

Dumbledore paused, taken aback. “Yes?”

“I suppose you were taking the phrase ‘born to those who have thrice defied him’ and ‘born as the seventh month dies’ as referring to Potter?”

“It’s obvious,” Dumbledore said. “That, and the marking of him as his equal.”

“I fail to see how— oh Merlin, you’re talking about that scar of his.”

Harry’s fingers rose involuntarily to his forehead. “Surely it’s clear,” Dumbledore tried, raising an eyebrow.

Croaker made another rude noise. He seemed fond of those. “Voldemort scarred and tried to kill a great many people without ever considering them equals.”

“I have several scars,” Amelia Bones says. One or two others in the room made their own confessions to the same.

“Has he ever called you an equal, Potter?”

Harry shook his head, dumb.

“There you go then,” Croaker said. “On the other hand, in the exchange several of us bore witness to earlier this evening, Voldemort clearly offered a place by his side as his ally and equal to the— to _Him_.” Something about his face changed to suggest a grimace. “The Dark Lord really was insane, wasn’t he?”

Dumbledore frowned a little. The other Ministry officials in the room began whispering amongst themselves; Amelia Bones, Harry saw, had narrowed her eyes and was looking thoughtful. Dumbledore said, “That may be so, but—”

“‘Marked’ can mean ‘take notice of,’ as well as the more literal interpretation you appear to have chosen,” said one of the other Unspeakables.

“What about the rest? ‘Born to those who have thrice opposed him,’ and ‘born as the seventh month dies.’ James and Lily Potter defied him three times, twice in battle. Mr. Potter was born at the end of July.”

“Or you can read that as ‘borne’ with an ‘e,’ which means ‘brought to,’ rather than ‘born’ without an ‘e,’ which means being birthed. Given that your seer only spoke it rather than wrote it, you really have no way of knowing, do you? One doesn’t hear a silent ‘e.’”

Dumbledore’s mouth opened. Then it closed again. He began blinking rather rapidly.

“He issued ultimatums to the Unspeakables in the last war, didn’t he?” Bones said.

“Three times. Shockingly, we ignored him.”

A desperate hope was rising in Harry, battling the sick fog of the night. “What about the seventh month bit?” he asked. “Trelawny said, ‘borne as the seventh month dies.’ It’s not even July yet.”

“There are a great many calendars besides the one we use today in the British Wizarding World,” Croaker said. “Just of the top of my head, I believe the Atlantian calendar considers this the seventh month. That’s aside from the various meanings of ‘month’ or even ‘seventh.’ Or even ‘seventh month.’ Our ‘seventh month’ being July, it could mean someone named Julian or July just died, or some horologically significant artifact has been broken that has some relationship to the number seven—“

Remembering the shambles they made of the Time Room, Harry winced.

“—Not to mention this piffle about ‘neither can live while the other survives.’ Potter has been living just fine these last few years, unless I’m missing something? Are you sure Trelawney wasn’t simply smoking something, Albus?”

“I performed several tests—” Dumbledore began, only to be cut off mid-word.

“Regardless, a Prophecy becomes obvious only after the Prophecy has been fulfilled. It’s what makes the things so damned annoying and useless for acting on in advance. If it does seem obvious before it’s fulfilled, that’s practically a guarantee that it’s fake, or that the interpretation is dead wrong to begin with.”

The Unspeakables in the room turned their collective stares onto Dumbledore, who maintained an expression of concerned skepticism.

“I sort of want to punch the Headmaster,” Ginny whispered.

“Hex, not punch,” Neville whispered back. “You’d hurt your knuckles.”

Luna hummed dreamily. “He’d look interesting without any hair, wouldn’t he?”

Caught mid-breath by a laugh and a choke, Harry began to cough. As a result, he missed the next part of the conversation.

"—bring the— _Him_ in for interrogation?” someone was saying when he finished regaining his breath and wiped the tears from his eyes.

The adults in the room collectively shuddered. “Merlin! Are you insane?” someone else demanded.

“Given the stories of what _He_ does when He’s perfectly calm, I personally don’t consider attempting to irritate _Him_ for our own curiosity a prudent choice. Unless you think differently, Albus?” Croaker asked with deep sarcasm. It seemed to be a rhetorical question. Dumbledore frowned at him.

“‘The Power he knows not,’” murmured Amelia Bones. “ _His_ power would qualify, certainly.”

Croaker raised his hands in a resigned gesture. “In thousands of years we’ve never been able to understand even a fraction of what or how He does what He does. Meanwhile, Potter’s unlikely to have any magical knowledge that Voldemort wouldn’t, given they were educated at the same place. Muggle knowledge falls under the same umbrella, given Voldemort was raised a muggle and was always aware of their dangers.”

“The power of Love—” Dumbledore began.

 _All_ the Unspeakables made rude noises. “Love is certainly useful in certain rituals and power for spells, but it’s a power that Voldemort knew, which was the prophecy requirement.”

Dumbledore drew himself up. “He never felt, nor experienced love.”

“And how do you know that?” Croaker demanded. “I dearly hope you’re not going to spout one of those ridiculous Dark wizard cliches you know damn well have nothing to do with reality. From what I recall, he had at least one or two relationships while he was at Hogwarts. Even before that whole business with the Chamber.”

A shadow crossed Dumbledore’s face; he opened his mouth to respond, when impatience finally drove Harry to speak. “Who was he?” he blurted. “The man who killed Voldemort. Everybody here seems to know, but nobody’s telling _us_ who he is.”

Most of the wizards shifted uneasily. The Unspeakables, on the other hand, managed to exude an even greater level of exasperation than before. It was curious how expressive they were with body language, given their faces were uniformly hidden. “Honestly, Albus,” said Croaker, snappishly. “When are you going to do something about your pathetic excuse for a History Professor? That was the Gold Weapon, Potter. Magic’s champion. And if I’m correct, the man with him was the Watchman. That red cloak and gauntlet were rather distinctive.”

“The what?”

“They’re wizarding legends,” Ginny explained. “The story goes that the Gold Weapon was the first magic user. He bartered with the world to pass magic to a chosen few. In exchange, he’s cursed forever to be its champion. The Watchman is— the Watchman.” She shrugged.

“He’s the judge to the Gold Weapon’s executioner. He watches the planet,” Croaker said. “If one of the Great Laws is broken, he summons forth the Gold Weapon.”

Harry can hear the capital letters in the word. “Great laws?” he echoed, lost. “What Great Laws?”

“What Great— Albus!!”

“Obviously there needs to be some significant review of Hogwarts’ curriculum,” Bones said, leveling a glare at the ruffled Dumbledore. “I’ll make sure you get a solid grounding on them, Potter. The point is, the Gold Weapon is more minor god than wizard. We’re fortunate He didn’t have any real interest in us. It’s just our luck You-Know-Who got in between where He was and where He was goin—” She suddenly paled, turning to the other wizards. “Where He was _going_.”

There was a pause. Several of the adults went white. “Oh no,” Bones breathed. Then the ministry officials and Dumbledore were scrambling, dashing out of the room or clumping up together in little groups to confer with sick, strained voices before dispersing to dash out as well.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked no one in particular, bewildered.

“You-Know-Who might have been insane and a Dark Lord, but that’s not against the Great Laws of magic,” Neville said quietly. “He wasn’t even a big deal outside of Europe. He broke the Statute of Secrecy a few times, but it was still something we could cover up. On the other hand, the kinds of things the Gold Weapon does are cataclysmic things. Enormous, potentially world-ending things. Compared to the Gold Weapon’s usual stories, You-Know-Who wouldn’t even register as a flea bite.”

“He probably wasn’t even here to kill You-Know-Who,” Luna murmured. “It was just a happy coincidence. That’s how a lot of prophecies work out in the end, you know. Coincidence.”

“Voldemort— a flea bite?” Harry sputtered, in a mix of rising outrage and frustration. “You mean to tell me he could have stopped Voldemort the first time around, and—”

Luna leveled a stern look at him. It brought Harry up short from the sheer unexpectedness of it. “Summoning the Gold Weapon to get rid of Voldemort would be like using the Killing Curse to scratch your nose, Harry,” she said.

“The Gold Weapon sank Atlantis,” Neville said.

“What?”

“It was the greatest empire of magic ever known. The problem was, they broke the Great Laws. The Watchman gave them a chance to stop, and they wouldn’t. According to the histories, the Gold Weapon showed up and sank them. Problem solved.”

“And then there was Pangaea,” Luna said dreamily. “There used to be just one continent. Something happened that threatened the Great Laws—nobody’s sure what. So he divided the one continent into the ones we have today,”

Given her tendency towards fantasy, Harry looked to Ginny and Neville, only to find them nodding in agreement.

“The Gold Weapon doesn’t show up for little things, Harry. He shows up for world-ending globe-changing catastrophes,” Ginny said grimly.

“Things that would destroy the Statute of Secrecy,” Neville said.

A brief silence fell between them. In the interim, several more ministry officials ran out of the room, robes flapping. Their panic was thick enough to almost taste.

“So this is bad,” Harry said, feeling cold.

“Yup.”

“Oh,” Harry said.

_The End._


End file.
